


Interlude 3 - We'll Take Manhattan

by shibarifan01



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Comfort Reading, Established Relationship, M/M, Manhattan, Music, Sunday brunch love, rinch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibarifan01/pseuds/shibarifan01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunday brunch at John's loft, sweet love, macarons and croissants and Ella Fitzgerald in the background - what could be better?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude 3 - We'll Take Manhattan

**Author's Note:**

> based on this magnificent song by Rogers & Hart, sung by Ella Fitzgerald - you have to listen to it if you don't know it - it will put you in the mood for the fic, I hope.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=se88dbz3GoE
> 
> another interlude so sweet and tender, no smut (or so little of it that if you blink, you'll miss it)
> 
> Wanted to do this before ending my big magnum opus - last chapter is finally written and will be posted in a few days.

 

The sun streaming through the loft wakes Harold who is comfortably wrapped up in a sheet and a blanket. Mid-summer Sunday morning, and the city breezes waft through the open windows, bringing in bird songs, children’s laughter and the faint barks of the neighbourhood dogs in the park below. He is scrunched up on one side of the bed but again, that’s how he always sleeps: quiet (he never snores), contained (he never moves), on his side, one hand along his body over the blankets, the other folded under his cheek, taking barely any space in the humongous bed. He gets up and puts on his grey silk pajamas, which are always neatly folded at the foot of the bed, atop his black cashmere dressing gown, and gets in his black slippers, placed at a strict 45 degree angle to the side of the bed.  

A snort and a sigh attract Harold’s attention and he fondly turns to look at John, splayed out on his back like an overgrown starfish and using almost the whole surface of the bed, arms and legs akimbo, naked as the day he was born. On the floor, on John’s side of the bed, and on the plaid cushion they’ve bought for him, Bear is also sleeping soundly, his head pillowed on John’s bunched up sleep pants. Harold automatically winces at the thought of how creased they will be if and when John tries to put them on… but then again, in the morning, John more often than not walks around the loft in the nude, and Harold has no problem at all with that.

He walks over to the bathroom, has a quick shower, hops into a pair of firmly pressed khakis and a crisp pale yellow linen shirt and then tiptoes to Bear, bends down on his haunches and says "Would you like to go for a walk and come to the bakery with me?” He hasn’t finished asking the question that Bear is up, tail wagging, tongue lolling and a big doggie grin plastered on his doggie face. “I guess that’s a yes,” he says, smiling to himself. He starts the coffee maker, grabs Bear’s leash, his canvas bag and his straw fedora and they both leave for their morning walk and errands.

Sunday mornings are a blessed moment for Harold. It is about the only time he feels he can take off without feeling guilty that the numbers are in danger. On that day, he and John usually get to the library by one o’clock, but the mornings are their own. They have their little rituals, developed over time, on that day which anchors their week and lets them reconnect to one another.

On the way back, Harold’s large bag is filled with croissants and brioches, cheeses and pâtés, the enormous New York Sunday Times, a few magazines and a dozen macarons he purchased at the French bakery where he buys his croissants, and one enormous doggie cookie in the shape of a fire hydrant which the baker gave him because he thinks Bear is the best-behaved dog he's ever seen. Going over his purchases in his mind, Harold winces a bit at the number of calories which will probably end up lingering on his waist and resolves to try and exercise a bit more to burn them off, starting tomorrow.

With Bear in tow, he re-enters the loft and sees that John is not up yet. He has simply flopped over on his belly. Harolds walks up to him, runs his hand softly on the two hollows at the swell of his buttocks, lingers there for a bit and finally says “Coffee’s about ready, love, and I am armed with croissants and brioches…”

“Mmmmm, five more minutes Harold, don’t wanna get up just yet,” he mumbles endearingly and he pulls at a pillow which he plunks over his head sounding like a sleepy teenager. Smiling, Harold kisses his shoulder and decides to let him sleep for a bit. He moves to the dining table where the newspaper is waiting for him.  Oh, the joy of the book section, he says to himself, keeping an eye on it and one on the long, irresistible body in the bed. He is half-tempted to undress and squeeze against his lover’s body, but he decides to wait a bit. He turns around, fiddles with the buttons on a console and immediately Ella Fitzgerald’s soft voice gently fills the space. “We’ll take Manhattan, the Bronx and Staten Island too”, Harold hums with her, tunelessly. He always says that if he had to sing for his supper, he would not need to lose any weight, to which John usually says “Well, I love your voice, Harold,” and to which he always replies “That’s because in your case, love isn’t blind my dear, it’s deaf.”

Thinking back, he is amazed at how well their lives have managed to mesh together, and at how happy and comfortable they have become with each other's presence. He is always overwhelmed when he thinks of how different they are in everything: their background, their approach to life, their tastes in food, in entertainment, in music, even in sleeping habits, and how it, this wonderful “it”, was not supposed to happen. What were the chances that two grown men, both extremely protective of their privacy and almost paranoid about needing their intimacy should have met, gotten to know each other and fallen so deeply in love.

A sigh coming from the bed advertises that John is now awake.  He is busy stretching every bone in his body, moaning and groaning in the process. He then says “I’m up now, Harold” in his deep, gravelly voice full of innuendo.

“Yes, I can see that, Mr. Reese” says Harold with a smirk, understanding perfectly John’s meaning. “But if you want a bite of those croissants, you’ll have to get your mind out of the gutter for about a half hour,” he says, adding “oh, and I have macarons too!”. “Ah, Harold, you do know the way to my heart,” says John, immediately getting up. And, as Harold had predicted, he does not bother getting dressed. “Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes this morning!” Finch comments drily with a pointed look at his lover's midsection, to which John replies, “I know, I know… shower now, and then food, and then…” but the rest is lost in the noise of the shower.

John comes out of the bathroom singing Ella’s song in his sweet tenor. Harold has put it back on because it is one of his favourite pieces of music. Passing behind Harold, John stops, wraps his arms around his lover’s shoulders and gently kisses his neck, right under his left ear. “You smell good,” he says softly, and then manages to run his tongue on the lobe of Harold’s ear. As usual, it makes Finch shiver and bat away at John, rubbing at his ear “Ha,” says John laughing and quite proud of himself, “I get you every time.”

And as they do every Sunday morning, they eat the buttery croissants and the perfectly-aged cheeses and the wonderful pâtés with dollops of pepper jelly or marmalade, tear through the macarons, fight over sections of the newspaper (sports, world affairs, comics and local news for John; finance, arts, books, international news and technology for Harold), and end up making sweet, mad, passionate love in the big white bed that is like an island in the middle of Manhattan until it is time to take another quick shower, get dressed and make their way to the library to save the day.


End file.
